


Social Support

by A_Starry_Night



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-01-20 15:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Starry_Night/pseuds/A_Starry_Night
Summary: Thorin survived the Battle of the Five Armies. Bilbo was still banished from the Lonely Mountain. Several years later, however, Frodo is captured by ruffians and the Baggins has no choice but to turn to the Dwarves for help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on ff.net. I've been working on this story for over six years, ever since my Psychology class in class taught me about post traumatic stress disorder and what can be done with children who experience it. This story combines both movie!verse and book!verse, although the Kili/Tauriel angle does not exist in this, and I've added more of Bilbo's characteristics from the movie(s). I've tried to follow the Professor's canon timeline throughout.
> 
> Side note: Thorin and Kili survived. Fili did not For Reasons. I don't know exactly how he died, but it's not how the movie depicted it.

Bilbo Baggins was normally an even-minded fellow, good in tight situations and not easily rattled by the unexpected. Or at least he was now, but he supposed he should be after all the Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, and battles he had faced. “War chokes out the cowards and emboldens the true” was a saying an old friend had once told him during his Adventure, and Bilbo supposed that that made him “true”.

But Bilbo Baggins was terrified now. He could feel his fingers trembling uncontrollably and his mouth was completely dry. His heart was being squeezed by panic, and worst of all he could do nothing about it.

_‘… we have taken your kinsman to ensure that we will not be followed. If you value his sanity and his life you would do well not to follow us.’_

Ruffians had taken his Frodo, his own sweet Shireling, his son in all but blood. They had taken Frodo, and it was because of that that Bilbo knew they had signed their own death warrant. More than fear, Bilbo felt simple, choking rage that that these cowardly Men would dare threaten the one thing dearest to him, and it was only of the threat on his nephew’s life that kept the Baggins from grabbing Sting from the wall and chasing after them.

They would pay. They would pay dearly.

But first he had to think this through, even if his fear made it difficult. He could not afford to rush blindly and thoughtlessly into this, after all—not with Frodo’s life at stake. 

He had been targeted for something. That could be the only logical explanation for this—why else would Men enter the ever-peaceful Shire and kidnap his nephew and leave a note specifically for him? He just didn’t know why he was being targeted now. He had no information to go on, nothing to even question a starting point, so he would have to rely on what he did know.

What he did know was that a crudely-made arrow had buried itself into the side of Bag End’s door as he stood outside, with this single sheet of coarse paper curled around it. And with it was a single tuft of soft brown hair that Bilbo would know anywhere.

He shouldn’t have allowed Frodo to go off by himself, but he had never thought that there could be any danger in allowing his nephew to go explore. It was a normal habit for Frodo to go off by himself, walking down through Hobbiton or through the woods. He was twenty-two after all, well capable of caring for himself during a short walk.  
It seemed he had been mistaken.

But none of that mattered now. What mattered was the plan he had to make to get Frodo back. Only after his nephew was safe again would he try to figure out the ruffians’ ultimate plan.

But he would need help. He couldn’t face fully-grown Men by himself, he wasn’t that blinded by desperation. One hobbit couldn’t hope to succeed, but he could not even convince himself that any of his neighbors would join him in his search. None would think to journey beyond the boundaries of the Shire, especially with one who they already thought cracked. The wizard Gandalf he hadn't seen in several years, and he had no way of knowing where he would be now. So who--?

But then he realized that he could ask someone. He had not thought about writing to Thorin Oakenshield for several years—not after the events with the Arkenstone—but he needed help. The Dwarves of Erebor could possibly be the only hope he had. He would write a letter and send it as quickly as it could to the Lonely Mountain and then set out. He knew that if Thorin choose to respond to his plea the Dwarf would find him even in the Wild.

He could only pray that Thorin had forgiven him. If not, he feared that his nephew would be welcoming an early grave.


	2. Nephews

Thorin Oakenshield had been King Under the Mountain for nearly fifty years. He had had to deal with the destruction of Erebor due to Smaug’s occupation, cleaning up fallen ruins and dragon waste; then he had had to deal with Dwarves who thought that he wouldn’t do right by his people and tried to usurp his throne. Finally, he had had to deal with the rats that crawled from the woodwork of his people who must have created a competition to see who could give him the worst headache. He wondered if these Dwarves and Men could be described as politicians with the way they stuck to you and never let you go. 

Or maybe they could be categorized as _leeches_. Leeches were parasites, after all, and he could use that excuse to legally kill them. Or at least semi-legally kill them.

He knew that Dwarvish culture allowed for a lot of violence, but he didn’t think that it would allow the King to execute his people simply for giving him a headache.

Right now he had retreated inside his chambers, with threats that any who disturbed him would severely regret it. He had hung all of his weaponry aside, draped his armor across the end of his large bed, and then simply flung his fur-lined cape across one of the carefully-crafted chairs that sat in the corner. He didn’t care if he was shirtless right now—it was only him in here anyway, and he surely didn’t mind if he was partly naked.

He sighed and with little grace fell into his bed, breathing a heavy sigh through his nose as he tried to relax. It had been a long, hard day—just like all the others were. When he had fought to reclaim Erebor as a Dwarvish kingdom he had forgotten the harsh responsibilities he already faced would only become heavier and harder.

Just as he was beginning to relax into his soft coverlet, he heard a loud banging at the door. His deep blue eyes snapped open and he muttered a hot curse under his breath as he stumbled to his feet, groaning as overworked muscles protested their movements. He partly hoped that whoever was knocking would perhaps remember the threat of immediate death should he be disturbed but no such luck—the knocking came again, louder and more insistent this time, and it was with ill-disguised irritation that he roughly grasped the handle and flung the heavy door open.

“Do you think that you—“ he began hotly, preparing to give whoever it was a severe tongue-lashing—

But then he stopped mid-word. It wasn’t just any Dwarf standing there—it was his nephew Kili. Kili, who rarely left his own chambers anymore; Kili, who had become so physically crippled following the Battle of the Five Armies that he could barely walk; Kili, who had rarely spoken after his brother’s death during that same battle.

His nephew was looking up at him with wide, worried brown eyes, which caused Thorin’s own confusion and concern to rise. What had happened that would bring now-reclusive Kili out of his shell?

“Come in, Kili,” he said automatically, hastily softening his tone and stepping aside. Kili did so quickly and silently, and Thorin noticed that he held a long slip of fine paper in his left hand. When his nephew was through the threshold he swung the door closed again and locked it again, sensing that the upcoming discussion would be better just between them. When he was done with that he walked up to Kili and allowed him to sit on the bed.

“What is it, Kili?”

In response, the dark-haired Dwarf handed over the paper in his grasp—Thorin saw that it was a letter, and written in a thin, wandering hand that suddenly sent his heart racing. He tried to keep his fingers from trembling but couldn’t quite manage it as he took it.

It was short and to the point, and Thorin felt his brow raise as Bilbo addressed Kili in clipped, almost impersonal tones. But it was the content that really made him look twice. Bilbo’s own nephew taken by ruffians and threatened with death? What would cause any Man to do such a thing? And now Bilbo was wandering around unprotected and alone looking for them? What was the stubborn Baggins _doing_? Was he trying to kill his nephew and himself?

He looked up from the letter to see Kili looking at him carefully, and clearly saw the anger lurking on his face.

“I don’t know what he expects me to do, Kili,” he said shortly, and handed the letter back. “He’s in the wild now, and I wouldn’t know where to look for him. He could be anywhere.”

His nephew’s eyes turned dark with distress and his mouth opened as if he were going to speak—but no sound came out, and he could only shake his head in silent plea.

Thorin’s brow darkened. "You expect me to help the one who betrayed me? Who betrayed all of us?!” he growled. The memories of Bilbo’s giving the Arkenstone to their enemies still stung. “How dare he ask for help now! It’s been fifty years and there hasn’t been a word from him!” He knew that his last statement wasn’t technically true—Bilbo had kept in touch with Kili all these years, but his nephew had never shared with him those letters and never said anything that even mentioned the hobbit.

He spun angrily on his heel and strode to the blazing hearth of his fireplace. “No! I will not help him—he’ll have to be on his own.”

“But his nephew, Uncle.”

Kili’s voice was low and scratchy with little use, and Thorin turned startled eyes on him to hear him even speak at all. But his nephew’s face was set and clear, as were his eyes, and it was clear that he was going to fight on Bilbo’s behalf.

“We haven’t even met his nephew!”

Again Kili shook his head and his next reply was simple. “What would you do?” 

And Thorin had to pause mid-retort as the weight of that question hit him. He knew what Kili was talking about—what if Kili himself was captured and held captive? Wouldn’t his uncle try everything within his power to try and get him back? 

It was through that realization that that was exactly what he would do that Thorin also realized the most important thing of all: it was a show of the faith Bilbo had in the Dwarf-king who had turned him out that he would dare write a letter asking for his help. And for the first time since casting Bilbo Baggins out of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield felt guilt settle in his heart. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough, and his shoulders slumped as he also realized that the argument was all but lost on his part.

But turning back to Kili he couldn’t be angry. “When did you become so wise?” he asked softly.

His nephew smiled tightly, silent once again, but Thorin knew his answer. He had become so wise through battle, and the death of his brother. It hurt more than ever to know that Kili would never ascend the throne of Erebor, as the extent of his injuries left him inept.

He would have made a remarkable king.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been fifty years since Thorin had so much as talked about the lands around the Shire, perfectly fine with pretending that hobbits did not exist. He supposed that was the reason why Kili never showed him Bilbo’s letters, and if he ever felt a little regretful about that he shoved it away and forgot about it. Besides, he was the king of Erebor and his already-stressful workload did not to include worrying about a Halfling that dared betray him, and if any of the Company so much as mentioned Bilbo Baggins’ name they were silenced with a fierce glare and a warning.

Therefore, they were very much surprised when Thorin told them they were going to help the said Baggins.

“Men entered the Shire?” Dwailin asked, a mix of shock and anger warring on his face. “Is that even allowed?”

Thorin shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?” he retorted. “I don’t live there.”

Bofur, currently reading through Bilbo’s hastily-written letter, looked up; his dark eyes were burning. “And they captured an innocent child!” he exclaimed. “The brutes!”

“Who will be going with you?”

Thorin crossed his arms. “Only a few of us,” he answered. “And only members of the Company, as Baggins has specifically asked for them.” There was no need to mention that the Company was now down to eleven in number: Balin had gone to the Mines of Moria and Ori had gone with him several years ago.

Dwalin’s smirk was sly as he looked at the glowering Dwarf-king. “And who convinced you to help him?” he asked pointedly.

Thorin spluttered. “What makes you think—"

“It was Kili, wasn’t it?” Bofur asked, a smug smile on his face. Thorin’s deepening glower was answer enough, and he and Dwalin shared knowing glances. It was clear among the Company that the normally-stoic king was nevertheless very soft-hearted with his last-remaining nephew, and if Kili asked his uncle of something, Thorin would do it. It was that simple.

Of course, they all helped with Kili, hoping that he would further recover. He was getting better, but it was slow-going.

“You’ll want someone to stay behind and watch over him, I take it,” Dwalin said, and it wasn’t a question.

Thorin nodded. “Yes.”

He didn’t like talking about his nephew as if he were a complete invalid and an idiot; Kili’s body may be crippled but his mind certainly was not. He was just as intelligent an calculating as he had been before the battle and Fili’s death, even if he was eerily silent now. And even if it was difficult for Kili to walk on his mangled foot, the fact still stood that he could.

Bofur stood and folded up the well-worn letter before handing it back to Thorin. “Well, I’m in,” he said simply. “Ain’t got nothing better to do than chase after some ruffians.” His tone made it clear that he was also volunteering because he wanted to see Bilbo again, as he was rather fond of the hobbit.

Thorin scowled at that but did not challenge him. He didn’t really care one way or the other.

0000000

In a matter f seven hours, it was all decided. Thorin would take Dwalin, Bofur, and Nori with him to find Bilbo, and the others would stay behind to watch the kingdom and Kili.  
Kili himself showed up again in Thorin’s quarters as the Dwarf-king gathered up his belongings. He took a seat on the bed and waited until Thorin turned to him.

“What is it, Kili?”

In response, he handed Thorin a piece of paper with something written on it.

_Will you bring Bilbo and his nephew back here?_

Thorin sighed in exasperation—did everyone but him want to see Bilbo again? “I don’t think so, Kili,” he said as evenly as he could. “If you remember, I banished Baggins from Erebor.”

Kili snatched the paper back with a n irritated scowl and quickly scribbled down a response.

_But you didn’t banish his nephew. I want to meet Bilbo’s nephew._

Thorin blinked at the quick logic presented to him. Kili did have a point, he had to admit that, and when he read the second sentence he knew that his nephew had won the argument. If Kili wanted to meet the nephew of Bilbo Baggins how could he to say no? His own nephew had been so withdrawn and reclusive these past few decades that Thorin had grown desperate thinking of ways to bring Kili out of his head. To see now that the mention of the hobbits had once again sparked a sign of life in the young Dwarf-prince's eyes decided Thorin before he was quite willing to admit it aloud.

Maybe (and he hated to think it to himself and hope) seeing Bilbo again would do Kili some good.

0000000

The four of them set off from Erebor on horseback at a gallop. Thorin wanted to find Bilbo as soon as possible, so he hoped to ride as far as they could every day with as little stopping as they could. It was the height of spring, for which he was thankful—he really didn’t want to try and look for wayward hobbits in a snowstorm.

“That letter was sent nearly three weeks ago,” Bofur said as the Lonely Mountain very slowly grew smaller behind them. His voice was soft but he spoke the thought bothering all of them.

“It was miraculous that it got here this soon," Thorin agreed, and felt his stomach twist with a worry he tried to ignore.

Even now they could still be too late.


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo had been following the ruffians’ trail for nearly a month and a half before he discovered where they were hiding. It was deep in the wild, surrounded by thick brush and to the east of Bree; it was almost nothing but a long cave dug into the side of a deep ravine, sheltered by an overhang that also conveniently partially-hid the entrance. He had only noticed it when he had lain on his stomach and looked over the edge of the ravine carefully, and even then it was rather difficult to spot. There was a faint trail that wound its way down but it looked treacherous, and Bilbo had to wonder how they had been able to take a struggling halfling down there with them. 

Unless they had knocked Frodo out before they grabbed him. The idea of these unkempt, uncouth Men laying their hands on his nephew made his blood boil all over again.

As only a hobbit could, he had spied on them when he realized that they were staked out here, waiting for a moment that he could move in. That had been two days ago, and the wait was driving him crazy.

Just the other day one of the ruffians, a tall, willowy Man with scraggly blonde hair, had exited the cave following a shriek of pain, and Bilbo had seen bright red blood running down his fingers where he had been bitten.

“Lil’ bastard,” he had growled furiously. “I’ll have the skin on his back for that…”

The Man’s muttered curses had both heartened and frightened Bilbo. So, Frodo was still alive, and clearly fighting his captors; but it was also clear that his nephew was buying himself a bout of pain, even torture, every time he did.

Bilbo had to act now, before the ruffians decided that their captive hobbit was too much trouble to keep alive.

He had retreated into the woods after the Man disappeared into the cave again, where he had hidden his belongings. His pack lay buried beneath a pile of leaves and twigs, and Sting was nestled between two boulders, almost invisible unless you knew exactly where it was. He was just thankful that its blade was not glowing blue—Orcs and goblins were the last things he needed.

But as he crept closer to his hiding place he began to feel like something was off. Everything was quiet, for one thing—not even the birds were making a sound. Then there was the uneasy feeling running down his spine, like he was being watched. But he saw no one and heard nothing, and as a precaution he unassumingly grabbed some stones from the ground and held them tightly in his fist.

When he was on the far side of his hiding place he heard, faintly, the rustling of grass beneath the heavy tread of a boot to his right. Quick as lightning Bilbo had stood up straight and swung his right hand forward. The stone flew through the air silently, and he heard with satisfaction the sound of it hitting flesh. There was a quick, aborted cry of pain and surprise and then a muffled curse; but Bilbo was already up and running to the boulders. His hand gripped the hilt of Sting and he swung the blade forward—

And was met by another blade that glinted dangerously in the darkening light. The two blades met with a sharp ring that made the hair on Bilbo’s neck stand up. Then the sword catching his dipped and whipped upward, and Sting’s handle was torn from his grip. As Sting landed on the ground with a clatter, a stout, stocky figure barreled out of the trees and tackled the startled hobbit to the ground. Bilbo felt the weight of a mountain fall on him, and the air was driven out of him harshly in a “whoosh”.

Shaking the stars from the fronts of his eyes, Bilbo blinked and slowly the hazy image of a familiar white grin grew clearer.

“Bofur!” he whispered in amazement—it was Bofur, ridiculous hat and all. His heart could have burst with relief; but then his body reminded him of the weight on him. “Get off my chest, please, Bofur,” he groaned. His ribs felt crushed.

“My apologies, Master Hobbit,” came the instant reply, and Bofur quickly leaped up. His smile was not in the least dimmed as he bent and helped Bilbo to his feet. “Be thankful, friend,” he said cheerfully. “It could have been Bombur who sat on you!”

Massaging his sore chest, Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle—but then he noticed the Dwarf’s left temple was bruising and a small trickle of blood ran down his cheek. “I hit you!”

Bofur shook his concern off. “It’s nothing. I quite think I exacted my revenge by crushing your ribs, yes?”

Bilbo nodded ruefully.

“Bilbo!”

The familiar voice caught his attention and he had just enough time to brace himself before a second Dwarf careened up to him and swept him up into a fierce bear-hug.   
“Nori!” he half-choked out, being twirled about in a most-undignified manner.

“Oi, Nori,” Bofur said calmly, “Be careful with him, I just fell on him.”

And instantly Bilbo felt himself being lowered to his feet again with Nori apologizing hurriedly. He looked at the two of them and he smiled his first smile in a month. “I can’t believe it!” he said. “I didn’t even know if you’d find me! Who all is with you? The whole Company?”

Bofur shook his head. “No. Just me and Nori and—“

“Hello, Baggins.”

The stiff voice of Thorin Oakenshield interrupted Bofur, but the latter immediately shut his mouth and he and Nori turned to look at their king. Bilbo felt his mouth run dry. For the first time in fifty years he was face-to-face with the Dwarf who had banished him from his presence and from all of Erebor.

_“Get out! You are no longer welcome here among us or our people! You will leave for your homeland today, and I will never want the name of Bilbo Baggins spoken in my presence again!”_

Remembering Thorin’s rage caused Bilbo to flinch, and he still had nightmares occasionally of the gold-maddened Dwarf-king holding him suspended above the rocks threatening to cast him upon them.

“Your Majesty,” he said as evenly as he could, but his tone made it clear that the title was merely formal—there was nothing else behind it. Two could play this game, and Bilbo had all intentions of ignoring Thorin and his martyred pride if it hindered in his rescuing his nephew. All that mattered now was that Thorin had brought help.


	5. Chapter 5

Thorin had not expected to feel so nervous to stand before Bilbo Baggins. He was a king, and he shouldn’t be afraid of a hobbit, by Mahal! But even mentally abusing his perceived cowardice did not, and could not, change the final outcome—that when it came to it, Thorin Oakenshield was well and truly intimidated by this harmless-looking Halfling.

But Bilbo was not so harmless—a point thrust into light by the very fact that the hobbit had been ready to drive his blade through a perceived threat. It was a side of Bilbo Thorin had seen only once before, this true willingness to either maim or to kill, and that had been when Thorin himself had lain at the mercy of Azog the Pale Orc. His expression now was just as fierce as it had been then, a grave determined glint to his dark eyes, as if he wasn’t afraid to fight anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

“Have you found where your nephew was taken?” he asked; he felt it best to hit the heart of the matter immediately. Bilbo’s nephew, after all, was the only reason why he and his fellow Dwarves were here, and he hoped to get this done and over with as soon as possible so that he could head back to Erebor.

Bilbo’s mannerisms changed instantly. Where he had been angry and on edge just a second before, now he looked suddenly very tired and troubled. He bent and grabbed Sting from where it lay before he looked up and met Thorin’s gaze head-on. “Yes,” he said brusquely, clearly short on patience. “I was just going to see if I could move in and do something about the current situation. Maybe defuse the tension a little, cut some fingers off, something of the like.”

Bilbo’s brusque, Dwarf-like talk almost made Thorin grin—he sounded oddly like Dwalin as he spoke—but at the same time it troubled him. He didn’t think the hobbit would have been changed so much in fifty years to normally speak like that. Perhaps it was only worry for his nephew that was the cause of his oddly bloodthirsty thoughts of attack.

Before he could speak, however, he heard the heavy tread of Dwalin’s boots behind him, and he turned to find the brown-bearded Dwarf walking through the trees to where they stood. His expression grew quietly pleased when seeing Bilbo’s ruffled and rather dirty form, but he did not speak.

Bilbo did. “Dwalin!” He grinned again, and it eased some of the hardness of his expression. “I wasn’t told you’d come along.”

“Aye, I came along. Anytime ruffians need handling, I’m for it.” 

Bilbo nodded. “Glad to hear that.” He turned back to Thorin. “There are four of them as far as I can see. They’re hiding in a hidden cave down a ravine not fifty yards west of here. I haven’t been able to see what weapons they have besides the swords they carry, but I suspect they have bows and quivers, because I’ve seen them bring in game.”

“How long have they been there?” Dwalin asked.

Bilbo shrugged. “Maybe a week or two. It seems they’ve been moving over the past month and a half, staying a little while at a place and then departing after a few days. It seems they’ve decided to stay here for an extended stay, and I don’t know why.”

But he suspected, Thorin could see. The hobbit had seen the pits of the goblin caves, after all, and he had seen the carnage of Men. He suspected what a longer stay in a hidden place could probably mean. Thorin knew it too, but could not bring himself to speak of it aloud. Glancing at his companions he could see that the three other Dwarves were having similar thoughts, if the graveness and anger in their expressions was anything to go by. They seemed as eager as Bilbo to simply go and attack.

“Do you know why the Men took your nephew?”

Bilbo shook his head. “It has to be because of me,” he said in a wavering voice. “It—they targeted me specifically, and they’re using Frodo as leverage.” He drew out the crinkled note he had torn off of the Men’s arrow and handed it to Thorin, who read it quickly. When he looked up, his expression was impassive.

When he spoke, however, his words certainly were not. “Come on,” he said quietly, but there was awakened rage lurking behind his tone. “We’ll go now, and we’ll make sure your nephew gets home.”

“And the ruffians?” Dwalin said, and his expression was almost eager.

Thorin looked at him steadily. “To nab a child would signify you don’t want to live anymore, isn’t that correct?” he asked coolly.

~/~/~/~/~

When Bilbo showed him the steepness of the ravine and the almost invisible entrance to the cave, he began to wonder how they would be able to sneak into it without alerting all of the ruffians in there. He had no way of knowing how deep the cave was, or where they were stashing things, or where they were holding Bilbo’s nephew. He knew that one botched attempt, and they wouldn’t succeed. Not from such an angle.

For a long moment, he lay quietly in thought, carefully peering over the edge. There was a small detail that he was missing, something that if he could just remember, it would help them succeed in this seemingly impossible endeavor. He was so still and silent for so long that Bilbo began to wonder if maybe he had fallen asleep; but then the Dwarf-king suddenly moved away from the edge with a satisfied-sounding grunt and stood in the cover of the trees. His eyes were bright and burning as he looked down at Bilbo.

“Do you still have your magic ring on you?”


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo wasn’t sure how he had found himself here of all places, but he was. It wasn’t a position he liked, but here he was, hanging from the edge of the ravine, slowly and carefully picking his way down the faint path to the entrance of the cave. His light step left no visible mark upon the crumbled stone, and he was walking with all of the silence that any hobbit could, careful to not dislodge any stone from its place in case the sound alerted the ruffians from their hiding place that someone was there. As a precaution, Bilbo was wearing his gold ring, casting himself into the plane of invisibility, but he couldn’t be too careful. Not with Frodo’s life at stake, because if he believed anything about these ruffians, he knew that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill an innocent life.

When the sun had finally sunk from the sky, and dusky twilight surrounded the land, Bilbo finally reached the entrance. He swallowed down his frantic heart and turned slightly to look behind him—sure enough, he saw Thorin and Bofur looking at the cave, watching for any movement. The sight of the Dwarves there made him calm slightly, knowing now that he had support in this rescue, and with an inaudible breath, he slipped into the entrance of the cave.

It was dank and almost utterly dark, with only a low lantern there to light the small, rather cramped space that Bilbo was standing in. The oppressive darkness made him think of the creature Gollum’s cave in the Misty Mountains, and he shuddered to himself. He was in no small amount of danger now, just as he had been then, and even now there was still the likelihood of dying. The only comfort he had was that the ruffians here did not know of his presence, unlike Gollum had.

He crept farther along the side of the cave, ears straining for any sound of his inquiries; for a moment he saw nothing, but as he made his way in, he realized that the cave’s tight entrance suddenly became quite spacey—the rest of the cave had a higher ceiling and its walls were naturally hewn out, perhaps by a long-dried river. In the dim light of the lantern, he saw finally one of the ruffians, a small, rather stocky fellow, broad of chest and thick-necked, with short-cropped, rather greasy hair. Bilbo nearly shrank back from the sight, but then realized that the Man was sleeping, his head lolling back onto the cave wall, his mouth open mid-snore.

Bilbo’s face hardened. This was no time to become light-hearted or sympathizing, he reminded himself. These Men were evil, there could be no doubt, and they had threatened his Frodo’s life. Thorin and the others were waiting just outside—all Bilbo had to do was draw the Men out above the ravine.

He was reaching for Sting’s handle before he realized what he was doing. His fingers were brushing it before he pulled them back. He wasn’t going to use his sword now—no, that was what the Dwarves were going to do. Instead, thinking quickly, the hobbit bent and carefully undid the laces of the Man’s boots, and then tied all of the strings together. Then he backed away and pondered silently for a moment, then decided that he would travel deeper into the cave. He needed as much information as possible for Thorin, so as silently as ever he crept into the near-darkness.

He came upon the second Man wrapped in a tattered, stained blanket that ranked of mold and, he thought, blood. This was an older Man, grey-haired and grizzled, and clearly fast asleep like his companion.

There was a sharp turn then, but Bilbo did not follow it. Instead, he merely peeked across its edge, and saw the cave ended some ten or fifteen feet back. Two more of the ruffians sat on barrels, muttering to each other; and behind another few barrels, Bilbo saw the bare, hair-covered feet of a hobbit. His heart leaped into his mouth, and he had to fight to keep from moving forward, and instead he made himself back away. He could not jeopardize the plan, no matter how it hurt him to leave his nephew only a few feet away. And it was painful, so agonizing he felt like his heart would simply tear in two. Very carefully, he came out the way he came, almost unable to breathe; tears were choking his throat and burning in his eyes.

As quickly as he could he exited the cave and walked up the path, waiting until he was in the cover of the trees before he took off his ring. The world came sharply into focus again, but he barely noticed as Thorin and the others came up to him.

“The cave’s bigger than I thought,” he said, struggling to swallow back his tears. “Smaller at the entrance, but becomes roomier once you get inside about five feet. There’s a Man asleep near the entrance, and another sleeping near the middle. Then there’s two others awake in the very back around a corner.”

“And your nephew?”

“With them in the back.” Bilbo shook his head. “I couldn’t get a good look at him, I don’t know if he’s been hurt, or—“

“We’ll find that out after we take care of the ruffians,” Thorin interrupted, but his tone was almost soothing as he said it. “The sooner we take care of them the sooner we can get your nephew.” He turned back to Bofur and Dwalin and Nori and drew his sword. “You ready?”

“Aye,” Dwalin said immediately; Bofur and Nori nodded, no less eager.

“Good.” Thoin turned back to Bilbo. “You know what to do?”

Bilbo nodded. “Yes.” Again, he picked up a few choice stones from the ground and approached the edge of the ravine, nervously passing them from one hand to the other. Looking down to the entrance, he steeled his nerve and picking a target, swung his hand forward. As any hobbit’s aim is true, his stone hit its mark—right in the edge of the cave’s inner wall. The resounding ‘crack!’ from its hit made him wince, but it got the ruffians’ attention. The Man whose shoes he had tied together leaped up, but quickly crashed to the floor again with a howl of shocked pain, which quickly alerted the others.

“What’s happened?!” shouted one, rushing into view.

“There’s someone out there!” the first Man retorted, wiping blood off his chin.

“Is there?” his companion asked darkly. “Seems t’me that the rat got all the ways in here and back, leastways, since I don’ suppose you tie yer boots ‘gether in yer sleep.”

“S’pose it was that Shire rat that we warned away?” a third ruffian asked, one of those who had been awake. “Come to take our pet away?”

“Don’t be a fool, Net!” the second, grizzled Man said harshly, glaring. “If’n Baggins came all the way here he’d’ve taken his brat with’m and stuck us.” 

Just at that moment, Bilbo threw another stone and it hit the stone right by their feet, making them all jump back—the first Man fell flat on his back again with a colorful curse. His companions made no move to help him up, instead glaring at the ravine’s ledge. Their gazes swept over Bilbo twice, but of course they had no way of knowing he was there.

“Who’s there?!” the third ruffian shouted, looking almost fearful. This was one with brittle nerves, Bilbo was pleased to see. He grinned to himself as he realized what fears he could play on this one. In reply, he let out a mad cackle, sounding very much like a crazy old spirit; but his vice also echoed strangely, as if from everywhere at once, echoing from the very ground itself. The third ruffian whitened.

“Spirits!” he cried, very faint.

The grizzled old Man looked at him furiously. “Yer a yella-livered coward, boy,” he growled, “if you believe that.” He drew his sword, a crude but viscous-looking blade, and stepped outside. But the third ruffian stood trembling, and now the first Man, picking himself up, looked rather uneasy too. The second threatened them with his sword. “Yer gonna follow me out,” he growled, “and if you don’, I’m gonna stick your gut! Git goin’!” He made the two younger ruffians stumble in front of him. “Draw yer swords!” he snarled. “If’n there’s trouble yer not gonna use yer hands!”

Bilbo took his chance. Running swiftly towards the Dwarves’ hiding places, he let out another mad laugh, making enough noise to alert the Men where he was.

“I done tol’ you!” the third ruffian cried, “there’s ghosts here! We done disturbed ‘em, an’ now they’re after us!”

“Ghosts aren’t real, boy,” the second Man growled. “There’s sumthin’ goin’ on here. Prob’ly that there’s someone here to get the brat, and if’n it is Baggins we’ll kill ‘im and be done with it!”

But Bilbo, his job done, was already speeding back to the edge of the ravine and as quickly as he could he was climbing down the trail. Just as he has reached the edge of the entrance, he heard one of the Men scream in pain, and Dwalin’s voice called out in a warrior’s call. The clanging of swords rang through the night, and he knew that the Dwarves had it all under control. He entered the cave and, seeing no one, he slipped his ring off and put into his pocket.

Just as he had turned the corner of the cave, however, he heard the sound of feet behind him, and he realized his mistake too late. Before he could so much as reach for Sting’s handle, he felt the cold tip of a sword press into his back.

“Well, well, well,” he heard a gravelly voice drawl. “What do we have here?”


	7. Chapter 7

_It came as the greatest blow to Thorin, when he regained consciousness following the battle for the Lonely Mountain, to learn that Fili was dead and that Kili could very well follow in his brother's footsteps. He had had his sister's sons by his side for most of the confrontation with the Orcs but circumstances and dangers had driven them apart temporarily, and in that time Thorin had fallen. He was not so young a Dwarf even then, despite his still-youthful appearance, and his enemies had set upon him in numbers greater than he could easily handle. A well-aimed blade to his inner rib, and another to his knee, had felled him before he could cleanly defend himself._

_Blood loss was darkening his vision as the wound to his torso started to bleed in earnest but still he swung his blade and cut a deep gash in the neck of the Orc that dared venture too close. His knee could not support his weight, however, and he soon found himself falling to his side. Sensing weakness as hounds do a wounded hare, the Orcs still standing started to converge on him ready to tear him to shreds._

_In a moment eerily similar to the memory of Bilbo Baggins' leaping to rescue him on that clifftop several weeks before, a warrior's loud yell of challenge rang through the air the instant before a blur of a body and blonde hair came careening into the closest Orc. Then Fili was there, standing with splayed steady legs and his battle axe held at the offensive as the Orc he had just attacked gurgled its last at his feet. A great raspy roaring erupted around the two Dwarves as the Orcs, only momentarily startled, brandished their own weapons and charged the young warrior who had dared step between them and their prey._

_Thorin tried his hardest to climb to his feet-- even his knees-- but it was impossible. Once on the icy frozen ground his aching and overworked muscles seemed to lock up and would not obey him, even as Fili fought tooth and nail to keep the Orcs from reaching his fallen uncle and king._

_There were far too many, and Thorin's cry of anguish ripped through his chest when he saw his eldest nephew struck down with a knife thrust to the gut between the fine points in his Dwarvish armor. It would not be a quick death, but he could be saved if he could be helped, and Thorin tried to force himself to move. Agony lanced through his body in a wave and for a moment his vision blacked out and he fell senseless to the ground again. When he came to, it was to the sight of Kili's smaller form leaping for the Orc running for the downed Dwarves; the wound to his rib was bleeding profusely and he was finding it hard to keep himself focused. His ears were ringing shrilly and his vision was greying and he couldn't even lift his sword up from the blood-stained ground. His last clear memory of the battle was his youngest nephew striving to keep his kin safe at absolutely any cost, and all Thorin could do was hope. Hope and pray, because he had failed his nephews so bitterly._

Dear Mahal, let them live. Please let them live.

~/~/~/~/~

“Now,” came the slow, triumphant voice, “turn around and drop your weapon.”

Cursing his stupidity, Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut in aggravation and consternation. Stupid, _stupid_! How many times had he been told and instructed to never turn his back on any potential enemy or situation? His frantic need to reach his nephew may very well have just sealed both his and Frodo's fates. The tip of the ruffian's sword dug deeper into his back, tearing the fine cloth of his jacket and making him jump.

“Now!” came the harsh order.

Very slowly, wishing that he hadn’t been so careless, he unclasped the belt of his scabbard and carefully let it drop, where it landed on the floor of the cave with a dull clatter. The absence of his belt was a terrible feeling but he could do nothing about it now. Following that, he slowly turned on his heel until he was facing the ruffian and had to look far far up before he met the gaze of the one in front of him.

It was the blonde-haired Man he had seen outside the cave those two days ago. The scraggly blonde hair was colored a light brown in the dark, but his eyes were glinting maliciously with eager intent. His hand, Bilbo noticed, was bandaged thickly.

“So you’re the ratling’s uncle,” the Man said softly, calculating in his every word and action. “Bilbo Baggins, isn’t it?” His smile was nasty. “We warned you off, didn’t we, ratling? Said you’d be making a big mistake if you followed us. But I suppose you brought help. Your companions are taking care of the others, I take it.” He raised his blade up to Bilbo’s face so that the hobbit could smell the stomach-churning rot of old blood and meat not properly cleaned off its iron side. “Walk.” And again, Bilbo had no choice but to obey, slowly backing up farther into the cave. His heart was beating frantically and it only worsened as he realized that he was growing closer to where Frodo was lying.

The ruffian seemed to sense the drift of his thoughts, because his gaze swiftly looked in the same direction for a moment. “Still alive, ratling?” he called. “You know how displeased I’ll be if you aren’t.”

Bilbo risked a split second glance over his shoulder, desperate to spot any sign of his nephew’s response—and was awarded for his trouble; not in words because Frodo did not speak-- but his feet, still visible from behind the barrels, moved from sight. 

The Man jabbed him in the chest with his sword, drawing Bilbo's attention back to him. “None of that, now,” he growled. “You’ll see plenty of him soon enough—rather more of him than you ever wanted to see.”

All the while Bilbo had been backing up, and finally he drew level with where his nephew was, and he was able to see. The sight before him made his heart stop.

Frodo lay half on his stomach and half on his side, awkwardly bracing himself with one elbow and a hand. He was pale and his face drawn, and his expressive eyes were terrified as he spotted the Man standing in sight. With a mix of horror and fury, Bilbo saw why he was lying in such a position—his nephew’s back was a torn up mess, clearly the victim of a whipping, and a rather harsh one at that. He was certainly injured more than that, but Bilbo found he didn’t quite have the nerve to look more closely, and instead looked up at the ruffian with a surprisingly cold, almost murderous glare that would have normally stopped anyone in their tracks. "If you touch him again," he said clearly, softly, "I _will_ kill you."

The Man, however, was either made of sterner stuff than most or he was just incredibly stupid, because he merely smirked and the tip of the sword dug even deeper into the hobbit's chest. “You just had to follow us, didn’t you, rat,” he said softly. “Just had to ignore my warnings. You have only yourself to blame for what will happen now to your kin.”

Bilbo truly wanted Sting back; he wanted to stab the ruffian in the foot and watch him howl and hop around. But what was real was utterly different from what he wished, and he could only hope that Thorin and the others would come in time to recover his blunder. How could he be so stupid?

The Man’s eyes had drifted past him again to Frodo and the darkness of his smirk deepened, promising pain. “I wasn’t exaggerating, either, when I said that you would be seeing more of him than you wanted—because I’ll split him open along the length of his stomach, and you’ll witness him scrabbling for a breath through torn lungs before I do the same to you.”

Perhaps it was this last threat, this latest threat to his lad’s life, that broke something inside Bilbo; or perhaps his desperation simply became too much to bear. Whatever the reason, he was moving before he even realized he had—not towards the Man, but tearing himself away from the point of that wicked-looking blade and leaping to his nephew’s side.

The Man was prepared for that, however, and as Bilbo moved his foot snaked out and knocked the hobbit’s legs out from under him, dumping Bilbo flat on his back with no air in his lungs.

The sword glinted in the flickering lantern light as it descended as fast as a striking snake—directly towards Bilbo’s upturned face.

~/~/~/~/~

Thorin had had an ominous feeling shuddering down his spine since he and Dawlin had taken down the last ruffian, but he couldn’t place why. Turning to Bofur, who was hastily cleaning blood from the blades of his dagger, he did a hasty head-count of the bodies. One—two—three…. Why was he feeling like he was missing something? There was still no sign of Bilbo, nor of his nephew, and his stomach twisted with dread as he recalled Bilbo's words from his scouting the Men's lair.

_“There’s a Man asleep near the entrance, and another sleeping near the middle. Then there’s two others awake in the very back around a corner.”_

“By Mahal!” he snarled, realizing his mistake. There were _four_ ruffians, not just these three! The last one must have stayed in the cave, which meant—“Come on!” he exclaimed to the others, and his voice was suddenly rough with fear. “Bilbo’s in trouble!” He knew that the hobbit was wily, but a hobbit against a fully-grown Man was like a pony facing off against a warg. In record time, minding his feet only little, he led the others down the broken path of the cliff and as quietly as he could he headed into the entrance of the cave, his cavern-bred eyes making it easy for him to see in the near-darkness. The sight that greeted him nearly made him freeze in his tracks.

Bilbo was flat on his back on the floor, Sting lying uselessly on the ground several feet away; and the Man towering above him was swinging his sword down right at the hobbit, intent on the kill. Thorin knew that any attempt he and the others would try to make would come too late, but even so in his desperation he reached for the hilt of his sword again—

And stopped in shock, because even as he watched the sword fly towards its mark, Bilbo’s right hand reached out, palm-out, and deflected the broad side of the blade to the left—a maneuver that the Dwarves had taught him all those years ago. The hobbit did not escape unscathed, however; even though he was able to hit the blade with his wrist, the sharp edge of it managed to slice his palm as it was jerked to the side. But the hobbit kept on through the motion, ignoring the pain it must have generated, and one of his large, furry feet kicked out and ruthlessly caught the ruffian squarely in the groin, which was the highest point he could reach.

The Man fell back with a howl of pain, and Thorin winced with what in any other situation would have been sympathy; now, however, he only drew his sword fully as the ruffian stumbled back. One hand was clutching the front of his pants, and for a moment it seemed the Man would fall to the floor, but his expression was frankly murderous now and his anger gave him strength.

“Little bastard!” he screamed. “I’ll peel the skin from your bones--!”

But then his scream ended mid-word, and his eyes widened with a new pain, his expression registering shock.

For a long moment that seemed to last an eternity the scraggly-haired Man teetered unsteadily on his feet, a look of agonized surprise on his face; then, with a harsh gasp, he toppled forward, falling limply on his face with one of Bofur’s daggers sticking out of his back.

Thorin and his companions wasted no time. In less than an instant they were all rushing forward and climbing over the Man’s lifeless body. Bofur none-too-gently ripped his weapon from the broad back and looking down spat on it, his dark eyes smoldering with hate. 

No longer distracted by danger, the first thing that hit Thorin about the cave was the smell. It reeked of stale sweat, soured blood, and was saturated with fear. Then he turned the bend of the cave, where Bilbo had crawled to after the Man had fallen, and the sight that greeted him made him stop dead in his tracks again.

Bilbo was kneeling on the cold unforgiving floor, his voice soft but breaking as his fingers stroked the dark hair of the hobbit lad he held in his arms. Thorin swallowed past a suddenly dry throat; it was clear they had finally found Bilbo’s missing nephew, and it was also dreadfully clear that he had been ill-used by the ruffians while in their captivity. The young hobbit’s back was a ripped up mess of tattered skin and caked blood, and his stomach was lined with the raised red whelps of a whip. That wasn’t the end of the terrible remnants of such violence, but Thorin did not care to see the rest at the moment. The small, slight body partially hidden by Bilbo's own trembled and shuddered, both with fright and with cold; but there was no sound of tears or even harsh breathing from the Shireling. The sight of such wanton torture made Thorin furious, and he knew that even if he had kept the Men alive they would not have remained so much longer.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Bilbo was whispering automatically, his soft voice loud in the utter silence of the cave. “I’m here, right here, you’re safe—“

Thorin stepped closer, and saw the young hobbit flinch in Bilbo’s arms, stopping mid-movement and suddenly stock-still where he lay. Thorin had seen such things happen with captives frequently threatened and beaten: fear completely overrode thought and the body froze in hopes of avoiding punishment.

Bilbo looked up at him and the naked terror in his expression was heart-breaking. He clearly had no idea what to do in a situation like this, but to Thorin’s surprise he found it warmed his heart to realize that the older Baggins could still look to him to know what to do in a situation.

He turned to Nori and Bofur and Dwalin. “Put your weapons down and slide your bulkiest armor off,” he ordered them quietly. He himself carefully backed away from the two hobbits and did the same. When he was done with that and feeling oddly bare, he walked back over, very carefully, to Bilbo’s side.

Bilbo’s nephew had gone still by the time all the Dwarves were shed of their more disturbing articles of clothing, but he still occasionally trembled. When hearing Thorin’s footsteps, the dark head swung towards him and the Dwarf-king finally met the mysterious Frodo Baggins face-to-face.

The first thing he noticed were the wide, frightened eyes that locked with his, eyes that he saw even in the dim light were a brilliant cobalt blue; the second was the ugly purple and black smudge that marred the skin of his left eye. His skin seemed to be white, naturally so, and the color did nothing to hide the awful discoloration of bruises and scrapes scattered on his torso and limbs. In looks he looked startlingly similar to Bilbo in the set of his mouth and chin, but his features were finer than his uncle’s, the nose thinner and straighter, the jaw more delicate, and the curly hair far darker. And on all of these were the same signs of abuse; worst of all there was a half-healed wound running jagged below his left eye, painful-looking and red as it slowly closed. Thorin thought he would always bear a scar from it.

It made him almost sick to his stomach to be witness to such violence laid on a child. Dwarves were fiercely protective of their children and always had been, but after their loss of Erebor and their numbers slowly dwindled, it became almost sacrilegious for the young to be harmed. Looking back at his companions, he saw the same fury and sadness reflected in their expressions and knew he was not the only one wishing they could resurrect the Men so they could kill them again.

Bilbo’s fingers were still gently combing his nephew’s curls. “Frodo,” he said softly, his voice still choked with tears of relief. His bleeding palm was leaving faint traces of blood through the lad's filthy hair. “You’re safe now, you're going to be fine. These Dwarves are my friends, they helped me find you. They won’t hurt you.”

_'No, we won't,'_ Thorin thought to himself, _'we won't hurt you, but a hobbit could easily break your heart.'_


	8. Chapter 8

They left the cave as soon as they could, wishing to leave behind the stifling air of its atmosphere and hopefully ease Bilbo's nephew. The lad seemed close to hyperventilating as the dwarves moved carefully around him, and finally Bilbo had taken off his jacket and shielded Frodo's view from their larger, bulkier forms; his voice was a murmur and they couldn't pick out individual words, but when both hobbits resurfaced the younger seemed calmer, and more of the tension locked in his body fled when he was out in the sunlight. Nori had found a small clear stream not far from the cliff and Bofur, taking it upon himself to be the buffer between his king and the hobbits, washed Bilbo’s hand thoroughly before wrapping it in clean white gauze. As Thorin and Dwalin and Nori worked to remove the Men’s bodies, he then turned to Frodo, who would not leave his uncle’s hold.

The Dwarf clicked his tongue, feeling a little helpless gazing down at the little one’s back. It was such a torn-up, blood-crusted mess he wasn’t sure what good he could do. He glanced at Bilbo seriously. “I’ll do what I can, Bilbo” he said simply, “but I can’t promise this will be okay. He needs to reach Erebor as soon as possible so we can work on those wounds more thoroughly.”

Bilbo looked up at him, startled and wary. “Erebor?” he repeated lowly.

Bofur nodded, looking swiftly at Thorin over his shoulder. “Aye. There’s a certain Dwarf princeling who wants to see you again and meet your nephew.” He met Bilbo’s gaze steadily as he watched the hobbit’s face brighten with hope and astonishment and yearning, and it felt as sharp as a physical blow to his gut seeing it. He had long believed, as many of the Company did, that their resident Burglar had been poorly treated at the last and this only cemented it in his opinion. “You have been missed, my friend,” he continued softly, wanting to reassure Bilbo, “even if our king refuses to admit it.”

Washing Frodo’s wounds was difficult. Bofur was as gentle as possible, but it still stood that he had to remove the crusted blood lest it lead to infection, and that meant scrubbing. It was painful, Bofur knew, and it made him feel terrible putting the lad through any more pain, but he knew he would rather not run the risk of infection. What really concerned him, however, was the fact that throughout all of this—the washing, the disinfecting, the wrapping—Frodo stayed utterly silent, not even allowing a gasp to escape his mouth even as his fingers clutched Bilbo’s in a death grip and he trembled from how tightly he was holding himself upright.

"This makes me uneasy, Thorin."

Looking up from the ruffian's body he was currently dragging towards the edge of the ravine, Thorin paused to glance over at Dwalin. The latter was standing over his own burden, his expression closed off and troubled all the same. He nodded. "You noticed it, too?"

"No papers. Nothing to explain why they took Baggins's ward. The only thing I've found are a handful of these coins." Dwalin held out his fist and let the gold fall into Thorin's palm, and together they looked down at them.

"These came from the Shire." Thorin stared down at them blankly for a moment, taken aback by the implications these pieces of gold gave. He had never heard of any hobbits dealing with such rough outsiders before and he was confused as to why anyone would target the Burglar. Unless he had made himself an unhappy outsider himself if he went home telling stories of the Lonely Mountain. But why target the lad? He shook his head and curled his fingers tight around the coins, dropping them into an inner pocket as he met Dwalin's eyes. "Speak of this to no one. I'll find an appropriate time to tell Baggins of this, and around his nephew is not it." He needed only to see the other Dwarf's slow nod to be assured his order would be followed, and then the two of them continued on their work to throw the Men's bodies over the side of the cliff.

When he made his way back to the impromptu camp that had been set up he saw Bofur hurriedly pouring water over the little fire he had made and gathering up his supplies. Bilbo was kneeling in the tall grass stroking Frodo's hair again, his mouth drawn tight with anger and grief once more as he gazed down at the thick bandages Bofur had applied. He was surprised by his wanting to try and reassure the hobbit, surprised and angered, and he studiously ignored the two Baggins' as he looked to Bofur. "Hurry up, Bofur. You have five minutes before we need to move on."

The four of them debated on who would do what as they left. Although Frodo was clearly unwilling to leave Bilbo’s touch, it still stood that Bilbo simply couldn’t carry him so far; Nori and Dwalin clearly frightened the lad still, and Bofur was already scouting ahead, so the task of carrying Frodo until they reached the ponies fell to Thorin. The Dwarf-king was extremely gentle picking the hobbit up, trying his hardest to avoid the gauze-wrapped back, he still managed to aggravate some injuries; but although such movements were undoubtedly very painful, the young hobbit refused to let any sound so much as escape his mouth.

Such behavior reminded Thorin painfully of Kili, and he couldn’t easily deny the fact that the behavior+3 concerned him. The circumstances surrounding Bilbo’s nephew and Kili were completely different, but it seemed the end result was the same, with silence greeting inquiries and a strange aloofness clashing with normal cheer. What made such a realization worse was the fact that Frodo was as stiff as a board as Thorin held him, and it wasn’t just to avoid irritating his wounds further. As the Dwarf-king reminded himself, however, Frodo had never met him before and after such a brutal experience it was frankly a miracle that he was even allowing Thorin—an utter stranger—to hold him.

He later blamed his oft-pricked conscience for why he decided to actively launch a conversation with the Burglar's nephew.

“Your uncle was near-frantic looking for you,” he said softly in the hobbit’s pointed ear. The small body jumped in his arms but even though Frodo met his gaze with fearful eyes, he could see that the lad was still listening. “Certainly wasn’t acting anything like the cool and normally unruffled Baggins I knew.” He could not say ‘know’ because how could he possibly profess to knowing someone whom he hadn’t seen in fifty years? But his carefully-flippant remark made the fear lessen in those expressive eyes as curiosity took its place—just as Thorin had hoped it would. “Now don’t tell me your uncle never told you about his Adventure,” he said with just the hint of a teasing smile. They had finally reached the open plain where the ponies were and Frodo shifted slightly to look confusedly over at Bilbo, who had heard every word Thorin had said, and in answer shook his head mutely.

“We’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?” Bofur chuckled from where he approached them, having heard Thorin's questions. “Shame on you, Bilbo, for not telling him! How else will he find out how extraordinary you are?” He turned to look at the younger hobbit with a mischievous smile. “He was appointed our Company’s Burglar and he proved himself to be very talented being so—by facing down a _dragon_ no less!” If there was any tension brought up about “burgling” it was hidden behind a smile, and the Dwarf aimed a swift, almost challenging look at Thorin as he mentioned the dragon.

Although his temper wanted to rear its head at Bofur's jab, Thorin found it cooled quickly as he realized what Bofur was doing—because one look at Frodo and he saw that the little one was hopelessly lost in this unheard-of tale, his fear temporarily banished in the face of pure wonder and curiosity. 

But he still didn’t make a sound, and Thorin knew the fear would return.

~/~/~/~/~

“I can take him from you now.”

Bilbo’s voice was soft in the dark dusk, but still seemed impossibly loud for being outdoors. The six of them had stopped for the remainder of the night, and were currently laying out bedrolls and blankets, readying themselves for a few hours’ rest.

Thorin turned to find Bilbo looking at him expectantly, his arms already out to take his nephew. The Dwarf-king looked down at the young hobbit now slumbering in his arms, his exhaustion having finally caught up with him. Bofur and later Nori had kept up a steady explanation of the more light-hearted exploits of their Quest to reclaim Erebor, and very quickly Frodo had succumbed to sleep.

Feeling oddly reluctant to do so, Thorin did as Bilbo asked and handed the lad to his uncle; his arms felt empty as he watched Bilbo carefully lay his nephew on one of the bedrolls and wrap a blanket around him for warmth in the chilly Spring air. When he turned to the members of his Company, he found them all-- even Dwalin-- looking at him with suspiciously keen and knowing eyes and he glared fiercely at them, feeling ganged up on.

“Dwalin, you’ll take the first watch. We set off at first light.”


End file.
